


five times Andrés de Fonollosa wasn't feeling well

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "I told you that a romantic boat ride was a stupid idea in February, and that you should've put on warmer clothes," he says, the last word he speaks lost in the sound of Andrés' loud sneeze.I happily present: the obligatory sickfic.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 15
Kudos: 160





	five times Andrés de Fonollosa wasn't feeling well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fscotts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fscotts/gifts).



> For Aleks; as a reward for making me a beautiful tho admittedly freaky lcdp possum icon on twitter. xx

**1\. common cold**

Some would say Andrés believes himself to be invincible. Now, Martín _knows_ that's what he believes. Which is why he facepalms, _hard,_ whenever Andrés finds himself indisposed, 90% of the time at his own fault. 

"I told you that a romantic boat ride was a stupid idea in February, and that you should've put on warmer clothes," he says, the last word he speaks lost in the sound of Andrés' loud sneeze. The man is curled up on the couch, knees tucked under his chin, a blanket over his shoulders and a mug of tea in his hands. His eyes are red-rimmed and tearful, his nose red like a tomato, tissues scattered _everywhere._ He would be a cute, if pitiful, sight, if it weren't for the fact that he wouldn't shut up. 

"Julia deserves the best and I, the great man that I am, always deliver. The weatherman was wrong, too, it was supposed to be warmer that night and-" 

"Clara," Martín cuts in, rolling his eyes. 

" _Excuse-moi_?"

"Clara," he closes his eyes, trying not to lose his shit. "You went out with Clara, you broke up with Julia two weeks ago."

"Oh, yes. You're right. _Anyway,_ " Andrés sniffles and sneezes again; he has a dad sneeze, one that shakes the furniture. Sergio's is exactly the same. Martín hates it. "This is _injustice_ , I do something nice and this is what I get!" 

"Sure, Andrés," Martín says. "It's really unfair."

 _Suck it_ , he thinks, _I hope Clara has tuberculosis._

**2\. conjunctivitis**

The robbery was a success, but God, at what price. 

"I might've overdone it with the smoke," Martín admits sheepishly and Andrés shoots up, the folded piece of fabric falling from his reddened eyes. 

" _Might've_? You're a pyromaniac," he growls and Martín shushes him, pulling him back down to rest his head in his lap again. Gently, he runs his hand through Andrés' hair, reaching for the cloth. He dips it into the tea prepared in a small bowl and places it back on Andrés' eyelids.

"A pyromaniac and a shaman."

"Trust me, it's going to work. I would get pink eye all the time back when I was a kid."

Andrés sighs. Finally, he relaxes against Martín, who's trying to keep his touch soft and apologetic. Carefully, Martín slips one of his hands in between his lap and the back of Andrés' head, thumb resting behind his ear, stroking slowly. 

He gets a blissful smile in return. 

**3\. stomach flu**

Martín is proud to say he's probably the only one. Not like, _the only one_ , as in: the love of Andrés' life, but, at the very least, he's probably the only person in the whole wide world who has seen Andrés de Fonollosa vomiting, shaken by spasms, kneeling over a toilet. 

"There, there," he says, patting the man's back. "Told you not to eat those oysters."

"It's a _virus,_ Martín. Ugh," Andrés groans and retches again, then spits. 

"That's so disgusting," he whines. "Undignified."

Martín hums, running his fingers down Andrés' spine before resting his hand against his forehead. Andrés' eyes flutter closed as he presses into the touch, letting out a shaky breath. 

"Oh, it's cold. Thanks," he murmurs and Martín smiles softly. 

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I'll always have your back, _amigo mío_ , even when you're disgusting."

**4\. allergies**

" _What is that_?" 

Martín looks up, kneeling on the carpet, letting the little monster munch on his hand. 

"It's a puppy, Andrés."

"I can see that. Why is it here?" Andrés scowls, looking at the dog with honest disdain. Martín doesn't get it - sure, dogs can be annoying, but not as much as some people. 

"That weird friend of yours dropped it off, said he needed to make some accommodations before he can take it to his place. It's only for one afternoon," Martín shrugs, getting to his feet, picking the dog up and chuckling at the way it whines when he approaches Andrés, who immediately takes a step back, covering his face with his sleeve. 

"What?" Martín stares. "It's been at the vet's already, it's clean and-" 

Andrés sneezes. Once, then again, almost doubling over from the sheer force of it. 

Martín's face stretches into a grin. 

"You're allergic," he states, barely managing not to laugh. "I can't believe it. You have a weakness."

"It's not a _weakness_ ," Andrés spits, but he's getting tearful and he sneezes again, so loud that the poor pup starts yelping. "Take that thing away from me."

Martín nods, grinning, and goes to take the puppy upstairs. Still, walking up the steps, his fingers stroking the dog's fur, he catches a glimpse of Andrés gazing after him with something soft in his eyes. 

**5\. flu**

Martín knows something is wrong the moment he steps into the chapel, because Andrés isn't there, which is a rare occurrence nowadays. Usually, if he's home in the evening, he's working on the plan.

The doors to his bedroom are half open though, and so Martín goes there and finds Andrés in bed, wrapped up in the covers. 

"Andrés?" he steps closer and sighs when he sees that his friend is shivering, his face pale save for the reddened nose and cheeks burning with fever, his eyes glazed over.

"I'm dying," Andrés states weakly.

"Is that why you are still wearing a dress shirt and a bowtie? To look good in a casket?"

Andrés only snorts and buries his face in the pillow. Martín can't help but roll his eyes - honestly, the man is insufferable. He winces when he hears Andrés cough; he's not surprised to find him sick, the winter is cold this year and Andrés stubbornly refuses to wear sweaters. 

Martín shrugs off his coat and leaves it on the floor, toeing off his shoes before sitting down on the bed. Ignoring Andrés' whine, he pulls away the covers to see that Andrés' shirt is sticking to his body, coated with sweat. Poor man is shaking like a leaf, which again, not surprising. The monastery gets cold. 

"C'mon," Martín mutters, pulling Andrés up and helping him out of the bowtie and then, the shirt. 

"What the fuck-" Andrés begins but shuts up once Martín takes off his sweater, leaving just an undershirt. He wraps his arms around Andrés, pulling the covers over the two of them. " _Oh._ "

Martín smirks at the way Andrés snuggles closer, his own arms locking him in a tight embrace. 

"You're warm," Andrés babbles, hiding his face in the crook of Martín's neck. 

"Yeah, that's why I'm doing this. I'll get you some actual medicine tomorrow."

"You'll get sick too," Andrés says, but he doesn't pull away. Martín sighs, rubbing circles into his back. 

"Don't worry about me."

  
  


**+1. flu (yet again)**

"I told you so."

A few days later, Andrés is well and Martín is sick. If it wasn't for the comment, Martín would've thought he was hallucinating due to his fever, because he's currently tucked in bed, a bowl of hot broth in his hands, Andrés sitting by his side and covering Martín's hands with his own to keep him from spilling the soup. 

Slowly, he brings the bowl up to Martín's lips and holds it there so that he can take a few sips. Martín feels pleasant warmth, both thanks to the broth and Andrés' touch. 

When Andrés sets the soup aside, Martín decides to be daring, maybe because he can't really think straight. 

"I'm cold," he says, pursing his lips. 

Andrés stares at him and a small smirk appears on his face. Without a word, he takes off his vest, his tie and finally, his _shirt._  
  
He slips into the bed and pulls Martín close, letting him rest his cheek against his chest. Martín sighs, closing his eyes, not minding neither the pain in his throat and muscles nor the stuffed nose, because Andrés' fingers are in his hair, stroking gently and scratching lightly at his scalp. 

He thinks that he could just stay like that and never ever get better again. 


End file.
